


sense of intolerable wrong

by chris9065



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chris9065/pseuds/chris9065
Summary: Percival struggles with temptation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ sorry i guess
> 
> title is from coleridge's "the pains of sleep"

Here is that old lie, dripping off his tongue like poisoned blood: _I can’t_. He can - and, oh, how he wants to. To feel his mouth on Credence’s mouth, to feed it indecency until he can coax out those soft gasps with just a look, with just an intention. He wants his hands on Credence’s skin, white and smooth and soft except where his palms feel the sharp edge of a ribcage. He wants to leave Credence filthier than how he found him, huddled and weak and haunting in the outskirts of New York City. 

 

Running steals his mind often; to be away from the temptation would save him, he’s certain. Hiding away with a frightened boy who wants to take what Percival wants to give is dangerous. It breeds sickness blooming in his chest, growing around his stomach with every passing day. If he left, he wouldn’t think about how good Credence would look with just the edge of his thumb pressing into the boy’s pliant, wondering mouth. 

 

Credence rarely looks him in the eye, but when he does, all Percival can see is reverence and wonder and desire, and it traps him.

 

“I love you, Mr. Graves,” Credence stutters out, fingers grasping dark cloth with desperation. It makes Percival feel powerful; it makes him feel dirty, stained to the very core. “I love you. Please - I need - need to be touched.”

 

Percival imagines wrapping his hands around that thin throat. He imagines Credence keening into the touch, crying softly as he stumbles over his gratitude. Hungry for more, wanton, mouth red and wet and indecent; he imagines giving more, fucking the boy into the wall until his shoulder blades are bruised. Imagination leaves him darkly aroused and furious, but it persists - Credence moaning in broken mewls, a mess of tears and dark, dark hair and white, bruising skin. Eager to please, to be praised, to have the heavy weight of a man’s cock in his throat just to feel encouraging fingers on the nape of his neck. 

 

He wonders: did Grindelwald touch him? Kiss him? Did he want to leave bruises - had he? Would it be a crime to want to erase those marks, then? To take Credence into his bed, to press him down and ground him, because that’s what Credence needs - he needs a firm hand to guide him, to pull him from stuttering words and downturned gaze, to teach him how to ask for what he wants properly, to show him the words to use to get what he wants. 

 

He sees innocence in the way Credence startles at his touch; naivety in how he shies from a lingering look. It’s difficult - impossible - for Percival to be convinced that Credence is experienced in how a man’s hands feel like on his body while looking at him with earnest, honest eyes.

 

Perhaps. Perhaps Credence will always be innocent; years from now, when Percival has pressed his feverish lips to every part of him, when he has filled Credence thousands of times, perhaps the boy will react with the same virginal desperation. Perhaps Percival should test the theory.

 

He can’t. He can’t, he can’t, it would break him. It would break them both.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“I can’t,” Percival insists, tugging his cloak away from wanting hands, looking away from wanting eyes. 

 

_I won’t_ , Percival wants to say, but there’s a grotesque, selfish darkness inside of him that wants to harbor the weak hold on hope that Credence still keeps close. _I won’t_ , Percival should say, but he keeps that lie on his tongue and washes his knuckles across Credence’s cheek just to see the way the boy tries hard not to lean into the touch.

 

It leaves his lungs black, his insides scarred and malformed; he wonders if Grindelwald doesn’t feel the same.


End file.
